Dancing at the Edge

Meditations from the Edge of the World

Last night I couldn’t sleep — as so often happens. A vision came to me, unlike any I had seen before. Normally, I would have brushed it off as a manifestation of my love for dance and moved on. But when I woke, every dream had slipped away except this one. It stayed with me, clinging to my memory as though it had something to say. This is what it told me.

At the edge of the cliff, where the earth bows to meet the open abyss, a tree rises against all reason. Its branches spread wide, donning green leaves and purple blossoms - a fragile beauty, rooted in impossible soil.

Beneath its shade stands a man. A dancer. His body carries both grace and quiet strength. Black shirt, black trousers, a wide-brimmed hat held low, his head tilted as though in reverence to something unnamed.His posture is still, yet every quiet line of him speaks of movement, of rhythm waiting to unfurl.

He does not step forward, yet his presence is more than enough. He belongs to notes heard in the air, to the trembling earth beneath the roots, to the pulse that rises in me as I watch.

The cliff yawns open beside him - the end of ground, the beginning of the gaping void. But he does not waver. He is balance,he is art incarnate,he is the reminder that even at the edge, life persists and blooms.

I do not know if he is only a vision or something more. I only know that he carries the shape of memory, the essence of a flame that dances both within me and way beyond me.

And beneath the blooming tree, I finally realise: beauty can be born at the edge. Grace can be found in the fall. And love, much like dance, requires the courage, the faith, to step into thin air and trust that rhythm itself will hold you.

I’ve come to believe visions like these are never random. Perhaps they are whispers from the soul, preparing us for what is yet to unfold.

Thank you for reading…✨

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With ink and light and, maybe an essence of vanilla,

Lia